


the moss grows on the north side of the trees

by angelicwerewolf



Series: visitor in autumn [1]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Original Work
Genre: Fan Characters, Mentions of canon characters - Freeform, No Interactions with Canon Characters, POV Alternating, Songfic, bo hatt's the bird guardian, but know i absolutely adore everything of moominvalley, especially the cat bastards i love 'em, finally beta read it, guardian of the birds, idk but i don't usually like making my fan ocs interact with the canon, idk what else to tag here sooooo yea, oh yeah, to the best of my abilities, vintertroll will not quiver before him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicwerewolf/pseuds/angelicwerewolf
Summary: A hybrid-troll who recently moved from The North into Moominvalley was warned to stay away from Bird Haven Forest, but how could he, a critter and especially bird-critters enthusiast stay away? For a while It worked, but then came a sound, a jog, and a dancing band of birds around the fire with a Mumrik that moved in along with them.
Series: visitor in autumn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807345
Kudos: 1





	the moss grows on the north side of the trees

**Author's Note:**

> Bo Hatt, Vintertroll and Little Peep are my most recent fan ocs.
> 
> The Vintertroll is, again, a hybrid between a Mumintroll and The Vinter. The Vinter does not know what he is nor does his partner, who both live off in The North while their son moved all the way into Moominvalley to continue his critter enthusiasm dream job. He's still very much like a Mumintroll, but leans more in aspects towards the look of a 6ft tall bipedal dragon with near-invisible pupils, hair-fur and doesn't hibernate.
> 
> Bo Hatt, or "The Bird Guardian", is a semi-kinda-maybe-feral-ish 8ft tall Mumrik who ran away from his problems and hid deep within Moominvalley, making his home in Bird Haven Forest between the trees on a treehouse, passing the day with folktales or fairytales to sing. Again, he's a full-on Mumrik with 85% of his body covered in fur, paws, sharp ass teeth with a long ass tail that never stops moving and a hat with a wreath of flowers and a tiny nest, and that's where Little Peep comes in.
> 
> She's a young, small, snowy owl who was saved from certain death by Bo Hatt some years ago. She's pretty active and likes to bite at her Mumrik's tail and sleep.
> 
> If you'd like to listen to the song sung by Bo Hatt in this fic, It's "The Moss" by Cosmo Sheldrake! The one described here is the demo version, but the final version is equally as fantastic. The very last song alluded to is by Cosmo Sheldrake as well, called "Pelicans We".
> 
> Link to The Moss (demo): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fVbEIeVySPg
> 
> Link to The Moss (final version): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62RvnXZgHwQ
> 
> Link to Pelicans We: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRtVFIsYPLI
> 
> It's not necessary to listen to either songs, but I do recommend checking Cosmo Sheldrake's stuff out! He makes amazing music that teleports me into his song's wonderlands and I love it.

The skies, washed with grey and whites, brought along by a chilling wind that threatened to dry and strip every little leaf from great big pines to a sturdy old oak, to a flimsy, little, red maple sapling -- but despite these strong, early autumn winds, a sharp-angled form of a lanky Mumrik napped under the leaves of a fir tree like nothing was the matter even with the occasional _thwomp_ of a pine cone, it either rolled off his body or nudged itself somewhere, same for the needle leaves that were only blown away at times; was it not for the Mumrik’s little furry-pawed companion, finding herself entertained by cones and needles, her Mumrik might as well have been buried under another whole pine tree.

It was only a matter of time before the tiny bird got bored though, there was only such a amount of decor she could put in the cat-like man’s hat, and she couldn’t play with his tail either! Not because she wasn’t allowed, no no, her Mumrik wasn’t like that -- this harsh-looking bushy but soft, thin tail just was pinned by his back against the tree, under the tattered, many times patched, dully faded-mink gray coat. The loose strings, moth-eaten sleeves, and the length of the shawl-scarf weren’t nearly as fun to chase as said Mumrik's tail sounds right about now.

He’s been napping for so long now, It’s near past 3pm, so the tiny bird figures that she should take matters into her furry claws, to climb the length of the man’s body, much like a parrot would trudging across cloth fibers that get stuck in their claws, but she makes it with no trouble under the Mumrik’s slanted hat without a battle against wool and cotton.

Now past the brim of the red hat, wedged rather comfortably in his beige shawl-scarf, she can see the peaceful face of this curious creature she’s known since she hatched. He’s a familiar sight, the only creature in Moominvalley -- heck, the _entire_ world -- she’ll get close to. He was also wedged rather comfortably, nuzzled and a teeny bit hidden, in the rumples of the old fabric now up to his prominent, sharp nose. She pushes herself forward to that fuzzy nose, using her tiny little beak to ever-so-gently peck and coos to stir the man awake. It takes some time considering how quiet and gentle she’s being, but it works eventually. At first in it’s only but dip of his nose further into his scarf-shawl combination, then a low grumble, that then grows into a louder noise akin to an animal being stirred from its deep sleep, like the purr of cat, but something that rumbles in the chest and gets stuck in the throat.

Droopy ears perk just slightly when a pair of vibrant green eyes, that are just as feline, blink open and seem to disturb the shadows around his face with a light glow. They looked like dreadful eyes you’d hate to see off in the distance, but the bird knew best -- The Mumrik was groggy, eyes fogged with that blurriness in your eyes when you awake, and a hint of a puzzled look until his eyes finally focus; usually-slit pupils big and round, dilated, but go back to their usual look once he sees who was the alarm clock.  
  
“Ohm, ‘Iny,” Mumbles the sleepy, crumpled form. “No, no Tiny. Little. ‘Ullo, what’a ya’ doin’?”  
  
Tiny, or Little Peep, as is her full given name, chirps away happily with what almost seems like a smile, understanding her Mumrik’s words past the wall of sleep. “Bo Hatt!” She mimics his voice, croaky in that bird way, telling of his own name as if she’s suddenly remembered it. The Mumrik, Bo Hatt, smiles at her, the gentle wags of his freed tail behind him. Despite being a bird usually unable to mimic humanoid speech, she found a way.  
  
“That is my name, yes,” The creature says with a clawed paw raised up to the hat, angling accordingly as he sat straight against the tree. While he did so, Little Peep moved as to not tangle herself in hair or scarf and settled herself on Bo Hatt’s resting knee. The more he moved and huddled, the more needles of the pines and fresh-fallen cones tumbled off his body -- especially ones not securely pinned to his hat, not that he seemed to mind how those stray ones got there in the first place. “What’s got your fluffy feathers in the rough, Peepers? That was some pretty big determination to wake me from a nap.”  
  
Little Peep began to chirp so wildly and vividly. To the untrained ear, it might’ve sounded like the frustrated cries of a baby bird looking for its mother, or a bird crying out in danger, but Bo Hatt knows exactly what she’s saying even if it were to be a garbled record player of a noise. The avian companion was telling of her little birdie adventures while Bo Hatt napped-- how she flew all the way to the treehouse to scavenge the fishes he’d caught then had a game of tag with other critters, even got to, ;quite poorly, but endearingly;, decorate the Mumrik’s hat with the aforementioned pine cones and needles that tumbled down minutes ago, now, something she did as for she couldn’t get to his tail.  
  
Such wild, curious things the dear birds of this world get up to, thinks Bo Hatt with a quiet giggle -- especially when they’re bored or want attention; or both, really. The thin tail that looks like a straight line of coal curls around his side, the knee that’s become Little Peep’s perch raising so he could be at eye level with the cotton ball of a bird.  
  
With long fingers accompanied by grey, dirty pads, he uses a thumb and index to give Little Peep her much-needed head scratches and massage, talking as he does when she stops, “The dearest apologies to you, little one, I did not intend to nap for that long and keep you waiting. Do you wanna go exploring further into the forest?”  
  
The Mumrik tilts to the bird’s left, hat falling in such an angle it shadows half his face and highlights the bright, almost crystalline green of his eyes once more, and even with Little Peep off in cloud nine with her scratches like a dog getting belly rubs, she’s clearly attentive despite taking a moment’s pause as if her response was delayed -- in reality, the bird was considering what she wanted to do in the first place. In her little bird head, it felt as though she already did everything a bird could do for an entire day.

She emits a loud noise only she could manage, something that sounds stuck between a crow’s caw and a lovebird’s chatter. It did admittedly startle the groggy Mumrik, enough to make his hand sag back to his side and all visible fur on him perk just a bit. For Little Peep It went unnoticed, her little looking to one side as if trying to spot -- but was actually quiet in thought. There’s only the rustling of the leaves, distant noises of other birds, and Bo Hatt’s breath before she finally, but unsure, chirped way quieter instead -- a seemingly puzzled look in her beady gold and black eyes and expressionless beak.

“That’s a good question indeed.” Bo Hatt said, pursing his lips together. “Well. I think you’d find quite the joy to know tales can be songs too, little one. I’ve no instruments to know, bloody awful at ‘em besides whatever ol’ tambourine, but I do have quite the voice for music. Perhaps we can call more of our winged lads to come join us with instruments, ey?”  
  
The tiny bird was almost bursting at the seams, hopping and bopping and scuttering all around the lanky creature’s body. Far too busy and excited to offer her own calls to the neighboring birds, but it was of no bother as the tickly claws of Little Peep marathon across his body. “Eager, eager,” Bo Hatt hummed, mostly to himself. And once more he’d angled himself in a way so slight, the only difference in posture was clawed hand cupping one side of his cheek and the other busy with two fingerpads pressed against his lips -- or past his lip actually, for that fancy finger whistle Bo Hatt’s seen and heard many-a-times before, but his own have it’s little uniqueness to it.  
  
Perhaps he was born able to mimic such noises, but there was also the possibility he’d just been living within nature for so long, and around so, so many birds, that he learned their own calls and the general ones to bring them all together, which is precisely what he’s planning to do, make their own little band.

It was a loud, almost daunting , cacophony mixture of bird-like sounds and whistles that quite clearly were being made by a Mumrik, but not a soul knew of him in Moominvalley, so for all he knew they thought his call was of a beast’s but that hardly mattered if at all. No one dared to venture into these parts of Moominvalley, never mind _this_ deep and far into it.

He digresses though, for what could sound like the horrid calls of some giant monstrous bird, was actually a peaceful and welcoming string of common bird calls, intertwined with the familiar Mumrik’s whistle, in an almost song-like hooting and the birds knew who and what it was.

Said calls brought forth many birds. The cardinals, bluejays, crows, even some other owls and many, many other birds of many kinds, many colors and many squeaks and tweets. There were the odd birds here and there that weren’t from the world in Moominvalley but all the same, Bo Hatt loved them all. There more the merrier, he thinks, any animal should live where it pleases. Where It can survive the habitat or escape dreaded hunters that go capturing them for trophies or to sell them to a questionable circus or zoo. Absolutely horrendous.

Bo Hatt tried not to let these thoughts consume him, not now when he had an audience to please. The audience of big and small avians stretched across the trees, but a spoonful of few were surrounding him by the front on the ground. There was a great big barn owl at the center and underneath her was a baby of hers, under the wing. There was an even bigger family for such small little birds, four tiny babies and their equally tiny mother; red cardinals, a murder of crows, two big parrots the color of rainbows and popsicles, and finally a peregrine falcon along a white dove.

Incredibly adorable. Regardless, Bo Hatt settled his tiny companion on the ground beside him then pushed himself off the tree’s bark, but remained seated, as he began stretching out his spine in a way that pops a number of times then he droops again, hunched and lazy, in a forward lean. A pre-made campfire stood there between the birds and him, and with chilly winds and freezing nights to come, he reached into his worn pockets to fish out a small pack of matches; As he lit one, Bo Hatt spoke, loud enough for the birds up in the tree as well.  
  
“Come one! Come all! For the tales that’re older than us, your parents and greats, a life-time experience for creatures and critters alike, in the form of a song. There is but a small dilemma, though, I’ve got no instruments that to play or know, you see, so a sad sight is to be forebode, if I tried,” He throws the lit match into the small pile of wood and a big but gentle fire crackles. “If you know the tunes to this song, join in if you’d like, for those who don’t,” He points a thumb at a proud Little Peep. “She’ll show you the way. Huddle for warmth or dance as the free critters that you are, for the show’s about to start. Your cue, little birds!”  
  
No sense in preparing his voice for this, far too late now he realizes, but that’s of no deal at all. His tiny companion begins to mimic the very start of the weird and wondrous mechanic noises, giving him a second to begin -- his paw curls into a fist, other birds join in the rhythm where something like a flute plays into behind the drum of machines, his fist is brought to his face, more birds up in the trees hum along, he coughs into his paw and clears his otherwise quiet voice, and begins.  
  
_‘ Well, legend has it that the moss grows on, the north side of the trees._

_Well, legend has it that when the rain comes down, all the worms come up to breath._

_Well, legend has it that when the sunbeams come, all the plants; they eat them with their leaves._

_Well, legend has it that the world spins ‘round on an axis of twenty-three degrees,’_

The Mumrik’s clawed finger wiggles, imitating the mentioned degree as best he could, and like the birds who soon burst into wordless tunes behind the lyrics, so does he. 

_‘ But have you heard the story of the rabbit in the moon?_

_Or the cow that hopped the planets, while straddling in a spoon?_

_  
_ _Or she, who leapt the mountains, while whistling up a tune,_

_And swapped her songs with swallows, while riding on a broom? ‘_ _  
  
_

  
  


_________________

  
  
  


His neighbors. Passerby's. Nearly everyone in the valley; They all told him not to. It was too unknown, too dangerous. Even for the most curious group of adventurers in Moominvalley, who stayed away from the threats of Bird Haven Forest. It was easy to get lost in there, especially in the dark, they had said, but this fluffy troll hybrid thought of everyone underestimating him, the forest -- for how they were supposed to know how it was like in there, when none even dared to get close to the entrance of a harmless forest with gentle green pines, occasionally discolored with red? It made the place look _less of a threat_ , honestly.

The call that echoed through the valley was what finally made the egg crack, carried by the seasonal winds that threatened to freeze his fur still. It was a really peculiar sound and he wanted to find the source of it. It could be a new bird species, after all! Maybe that never-discovered beast, of which the people spoke about in quiet whispers as if this imagined monster, in his most humble opinion, could hear them all the way across their known world.

It was already getting dark with the first hint of stars in the sky and the last rays of sun seeping away from the horizon, but prepared with his trusty lamp the troll could see through the thick shadows of this forest. He was far past it’s entrance now and had to make his own path down to the depths; thinking, remembering, straining fuzzy ears for any more clues of this call.

Vintertroll didn’t believe in any of these fantastical monsters to inhabit Moominvalley, If the entire world at all, so he had no reason to fear. They were all myths of times before their own and tales of the old and new waterbound and airbound sailors, but there _are_ very _real_ monsters; Vintertroll stumbles at his own thought, suddenly more wary of the forest circling him; It was creatures like any other -- those who know the evil deeds they were doing and didn’t care for the pain they inflict upon others. The ones who hold you at gunpoint and ask for your money, those who sneak into houses and steal precious and dear valuables, the ones who take one look at you and commit _murder._

The troll-hybrid didn’t want to admit it, to not make himself paranoid, but perhaps this is why he brought along his kershaw blur blade that bounced along in his satchel. It was to cut through thick shrubbery, vines and brambles, not to fight off a person. _  
_ _  
_ _‘Bugger off with those unwanted thoughts,’_ thought Vintertroll. _‘None of that silly stuff will h..’_ His internal voice trails off quite suddenly.

There’s _something._ No, _someone._

With this comes an anxious flick of Vintertroll’s tail. It’s just up ahead, he guesses as he trains his perked ears pointedly forward. It takes another moment but sure enough, he can hear a soft murmur, with much chatter around whoever is the source of this voice. A tad difficult to hear them properly, that is, but whatever the case he doesn’t feel like he’s in danger. Something tugs him along to investigate with care and caution, so he had lowered the hand lamp and switched it off. The closer he got, the more he could hear, and finally see the slight hint of preoccupied birds and a not-so-far glow. The birds were humming a tune, along with a now crystal clear voice that was singing -- pressing the lamp to his fur and scarf to muffle the noises of metal clanks, he quietly hurries along off to the side, where no creature or critter was able to spot him even with such snow-looking fur.

He’s a bit late to the party it seems, as he hides behind many more bushes with the never-ending cluster of pine trees but at least Vintertroll could see what all the commotion was about, with the many wonderful birds huddled around a fire as they hummed and swayed from side to side -- dancing, with a figure that was largely obstructed by the bigger pine tree they were under. All he could see was a thumping tail leading to only one side of the lazy posture, a peek of a hat as well along the ruffles of a scarf thing.

Luckily he goes unnoticed, as neither stranger, birds, or music stops.

_‘ Well, we can all learn things from both many and a-few,_

_From that old hunched woman who lived inside a shoe!_ _  
  
_

_Or the girl that sang all day and by night she ate tear-soup,_

_Or the man who drank too much and he got the brewer’s droop!’_ _  
  
_

  
  


_________________

  
  
  


There was a scent. No scent akin to a bird and Bo Hatt’s wrinkled in it’s unfamiliarity but he refused to stop the show, for the birds were enjoying it and so was he. He’d deal with the possible threat later. He tips from his left to the right, smiling a big and wide smile that the birds knew it was of genuine and care, but soon such a scary-looking smile of a shark-toothed mouth became obscured with a paw that Bo Hatt put there, as if to whisper his most mysterious secret yet, and he carried on.

_‘ Now listen all ye’fair maidens to how the moral goes;_

_Nobody knew and nobody knows!_ _  
  
_

_How the pobble was robbed of his twice-five-toes,_

_Or how the dong, came to own, a luminous nose!’_

The paw that hid a now-slight smile taps at his own sharp nose.  
  
_‘ Or how the jumblies went to sea in the sieve that they rowed,_

_And came to shore by the chankly bore, where the bong trees grow.’_

His ear twitches just slightly, a small disturbance some feet behind him -- it makes his voice grow rather serious, almost unreadable, but as well like he was about to tell of a foreboding or as if he were to speak of troubles he’d bottled -- his eyes pry from the dancing and singing birds around the fire, and just a tiny bit, discreetly, turns and glances from above the ruffle of his shawl-scarf around his shoulder.

It seems the birds, even unaware, know how to attune such eeriness in hums like Bo Hatt does with his words, following the rest.

_‘ This is just how things are,_

_How things have always been._

_And how things will continue,_

_To be for you and me. ‘_

Another burst as all eeriness seems to have drained like a freshly-squeezed orange. Bo Hatt leaps up to his feet, high heeled-boots and the shadow of the flames masking him far taller than he is already -- It startled nobody but the other hidden in the bushes, watching this unusual Mumrik move and suddenly dance in such a way. It was was more of gentle, ballerina-like turns, arms that folded and curled along with his movement, hips that swayed in circles and legs that gave out from under him, then propelled him back in a gentle jump.  
  
_‘ But, have you heard the story of the rabbit in the moon?_ _  
  
_

_Or the cow who hopped the planets, while straddling in a spoon?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Or she, who leapt up mountains! while whistling up a tune?_ _  
  
_

_And swapped her songs with swallows while riding on a broom?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Well, we can all learn things, both many and a-few,_

_From that old hunched woman who lived inside a shoe._

_Or the girl who sang all day and by night she ate tear soup --_

_Or the man who drank too much, and he got the brewer’s droop.’_

At the end his voice began to fade, just like he did he went past the light of the fire and danced through the trees with birds all around, birds that had not a care in the world and finished the rest of the song with their harmonical, in-tune, perfect mimicry of instruments.

It was a grand and breathtaking spectacle.  
  
From the synced, swaying and circling birds to the alluring voice and strange dancing of what Vintertroll can see is now a Mumrik. Not too clear though, for far he was now and keeping to the shadows.

Then just like the Mumrik’s voice when it faded when no more lyrics were to be sung upon any willing ear, the music of the birds soon followed suit but more slowly as they filtered out, one by one, and carried the mysterious hums off with them until they were no longer in hearing shot.

It truly indeed felt like these birds carried a secret shrouded within the song, but as silence fell and no birds -- _or the Mumrik_ , -- were to be seen anymore but now all there was, is a weird stillness of the forest with nothing but the gentle crackling of a still-bright campfire, remained and stuck like the sudden nervous lump of fear in Vintertroll’s throat or the fur that was rising on his back.

None of it made sense right then and there. Just earlier there was absolutely no gut pain telling him to turn and run, but now there was the uncertainty and fear messing about in his noggin like a fly that won’t leave you alone. There were no big bad monsters full of teeth and horrors, never was, but what if this Mumrik was another sort of _a-- that--_ monster?  
  
No, no.

He didn’t seem like the sort to hurt for pleasure.

Not after hearing what a soft voice he has and what delicate dancing he did, although strange, he made sure to not hurt or spook any birds.  
  
_‘Appearances can be deceiving.’_ Vintertroll reminds himself as he digs further into the bushes, careful not to make a sound and reaches for the satchel that conceals the blade, taking the shiny thing out. _‘Just in case.’_

But nothing still made any sense to explain such a sudden, unwarranted sucker punch of a worry that dared to call itself _reasonable_ without telling him _why_ when moments ago, he almost was tempted to join the man in his song and dancing, but that heavy stone of _some_ worry rolled uncomfortably. He’s overthinking this -- complete, utter, useless overthinking. The lad was dodgy, yeah, but damn dude’s probably across the valley by now and not at all, whatsoever, planning to _murder_ a random marshmellow that just _had_ to go against the word of the elderly and neighbors alike. He scolded himself for a little while in there.

He better make his way home before he dies out here from _worrying,_ though, he decides as the knife's stashed awat. The hybrid-troll climbs out of his hiding spot and holding a lamp, scarf, and an open-satchel, close to himself to keep it from the brambles, mindlessly and aloud, he ponders, “Do I even know where I am?”  
  
The question should have not been answered, and yet, came a sly but gentle voice.  
  
“No, I don’t think you do.”

Vintertroll froze as stiff as a clump of icicles in frozen caverns. It was clear as day all fur was fluffed, up high on end as if such soft pillow-like fur would save him. Vintertroll didn’t move much, but his chest heaved with panic and it certainly did not help to see the looming and lanky figure right next to him, leaning against the very tree Vintertroll was next to since the beginning.

He couldn’t make out much of the Mumrik; the cast of the campfire’s blaze and moonlight shunned from looking past tree tops; all he could make out was that thin, coal black tail that swung and waved like a snake’s body and the most _unnerving, shade-changing, vibrant eyes_ with such thin slits. The eyes alone seemed to speak back to him of his mistakes and fears and secrets but in reality, the Mumrik couldn’t know such things. _Could he?_  
  
“A- Are you going to hurt me?” Was all he could thin of at that moment.  
  
The Mumrik doesn’t answer right away.  
  
Nor blinks. _At all._ He just moves after a moment’s pause and with little to no noise -- Bo Hatt has pushed himself off the tree with no effort and rounds the very much petrified hybrid-troll, who seems he can only watch and move his head ever so slightly. Oh, bugger.  
  
“That depends.” Bo Hatt finally answered, coolly, his tail waving behind him as he walks in circles, circles, circles. “Are you a creature who carries ill intentions?”  
  
“N- No!” That snaps him out. Real quick. “Absolutely _not!_ How dare you?”  
  
Those green eyes finally blink for once, then fall into an almost-sleepy look, that would’ve in a whole other scenario been cute if the stranger wasn’t actually _glaring._ _  
_ _  
_ Questions that need no attention are answers that he keeps to himself. “Then tell me, troll,” A paw is raised and a sharp claw points into the satchel, “If you aren’t one for crime, what is one to do alone with a knife like yours this late in the woods? If not a criminal,” Bo Hatt ceases to circle the hybrid entirely when he's in front of him in favor of leaning above him enough to where snout and nose are able to reach each other. “Then a hunter if you’re _this far_ in.” These words are said with such distaste, the hiss nearly sounds like he could’ve spat venom, but before the hybrid could say anything he leaned away and smiled _just a tiny bit._

  
“But I know how soft everyone is here, and you're not as sly as you think you are, troll, nor as brave as you think you should be.” Bo Hatt turns fast on his heel and off to the campfire he walks. “Join me by the fire or run back to the valley, do as you please. I wouldn’t care either way.”

When Bo Hatt’s close enough by campfire, he crosses one long leg across the other to gently crumple into that same, lazy hunched position from before and Vintertroll’s silence was of an incredible oddity to anyone that knew him. Able to ramble on without so much a breath it seems, this time around all he had to show _was_ heavy breathing and no words. He was struggling with himself, trying to find a way to not only feel but also talk because he sure as hell did not know where to even begin.  
  
Never in his life had he gone from wonder, amazement, fear, and confusing anger _so fast. “Bloody cat--”_ Is all that he can manage, once that stone in his gut dissolved and raised to become something _tight_ , _furious,_ around his throat. Bo Hatt didn’t seem to care, not then and not now. “You mean to tell me your arse fancied a _scare?”_ The hybrid stomped to the campfire, all the way to the front to actually see the guy.  
  
“I never said I desired for you to feel fear.”

He didn’t look up from the fire and, perhaps that was for the best, because Vintertroll had to take a moment to properly inspect the Mumrik. It’s not like he’s never _seen_ a Mumrik in his life, there were plenty around the world and two of them in Moominvalley. Now three, if you count this one. It’s just a surprising sight seeing one this close in the blaze of a fire.

The oval-shaped eyes held the entire palette to green, It seems, flickering all around a now-calm and slightly wider slit for pupils, he could also see fur all around his nose, his entire neck was coal fur that traveled up all the way to his fluffy sideburns and droopy ears. The fur did not match his messy hair, bit more of a dark brown, but like his fur his face-stubble-whiskers were coal, and maybe he should’ve noticed sooner, but his paws were not hidden in gloves and were in fact just very sleek and furry, he can see the slightest hint of grey pads from here.  
  
Nearly as the faded grey of his coat. Could it be called a coat, for it wasn’t really leather? It was woolly with fuzz coming out in tiny knots, pretty likely his own doing with such a long shawl-scarf thing brushing all around him and rolling around on the dirt like that. His hat was way better taken care of, big and wizard-like, encircled with a wreath of vines, flowers, pine needles and cones and-- _Is that an actual bird._ Alright. He understands the fur looking like gloves but _entirely missing a mini snowball-looking bird?_ Of all things? How could it sleep so without waking, too, when it was awake moments ago following the Mumrik, as he vaguely recalls.

Where does he even _start._ “You’re overdressed and at the same time under-dressed for the cold, Mumrik.” Huffs the troll as he rather bitterly sits down. He doesn’t wanna admit that he’s lost, as it would hurt his already shivering pride.  
  
“And I so happen to do whatever I please.” He still doesn’t look up while he pokes the fire with a stick. “You’re not the only creature with fur, too, and if anything,” Suddenly he raises the stick pointedly at the hybrid-troll. “ _You’re_ the under-dressed one with here just a scarf. Look at you, shiverin’ like a cat wet from the rain. Huddle closer to the fire or you’ll get sick, troll.”

Vintertroll tries his best not to grab at his own fur in such slight, pointless frustration. Or anger. The Mumrik didn’t know him and seemed like a feral, or territorial one. “How do I know you’re not gonna hurt me If I do?”  
  
He drops the stick. “I already said that depends--”  
  
_“On what!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Let me finish,”_ snapped the Mumrik and the troll got quiet. “On whether you planned harm against me or the birds. Defensive but you are of no threat, so no, I’m not going to hurt you. What do you take me for?”  
  
This answer seems to be of suffice for the troll, who stands again, takes a few steps closer to the fire and finally flops back down to his rear, both paws already hovering above the orange light. “For starters,” However, that did not mean that he did not have a few bones to pick with the Mumrik or that he'd shut up any time soon. “You could _maybe_ change your tone up or down a notch, It’ll do you no good sounding like a big ol’ grump.”  
  
Vintertroll fluffles in anger this time and the Mumrik does much the same but with the fur of his tail; Vintertroll continues anyways. “Secondly, a proper introduction wouldn’t do you any harm.”  
  
“And must you know my name?” Deflating rather quickly, he makes a rough noise that turns very slight gruff laugh. “You’re movin’ quick for someone who froze just moments ago! I could mistake you for a deer, truly.”  
  
For the umpteenth time, never mind the nonsense he speaks like a man of riddles to greet you at every door to a puzzle, because the implication made the troll fluff further more, flustered across his cheeks. “I’m not asking it like I’m inviting you out to dinner, you self-absorbed cat!”  
  
The Mumrik pays no mind. He has no time for that. “Such fickle creatures,” He began through the hybrid-troll’s further noises of frustration. “That freeze in place then take off.”

They were going in circles, quiet. Vintertroll drags a paw across his face, tiny claws pulling at the fur along. “I am utterly convinced you’ve lived on your own for so long, you’ve gone mad.”  
  
“What are you?”

  
“I asked first, technically.”  
  
That was the wrong answer.

  
“It’s not about the you, me, they-first,” murmured the man within a soft hiss, leaning too close to the fire so careless of himself, but a claw tips the hat back, careful to not burn it or disturb the bird on it. “It’s about _who, what and why’s-_ asking. For all I know, you’d run back to the valley and tell the others that the so called _monster_ is actually just a Mumrik who you thought was going to hurt you. Who are you for me to trust to not try and frame me for a crime or drive me away from the valley? There’s only so much trouble in my life I can handle. So. Who. What. Are. You.”  
  
He's taken aback, eyes wide. "M- Mumrik sir, I, well-- wasn't--”  
  
How was one to react to an outburst like that? He hears the Mumrik snarl something but it falls on deaf ears. “To tell you the truth, Mumrik chap, I had thought _at first_ to disprove the ‘legend’ of Bird Haven’s monster, and that's a big _maybe_ , for monsters like that are not real, after all, but if it matters such a great deal to you, I won’t even so much as whisper to a sea conch at the beach and send ‘em off down the reef.”

When he gazes past the fire, he could see the other was unusually still along with the once-lively tail. Was that really of surprise to him, to have someone show an ounce of kindness? “How strange.” The troll whispers, looking into glossy and distant eyes. “Just now you were talking about freezing like a deer in the headlights, then you turn 'round and do the same, because of something you do not seem used to.” He can’t help but to smile, the silliness of it all sinking warmly -- what in the bloody hell just happened, he doesn’t know, but he was quick to understand now that the Mumrik just needed a bit of love.  
  
He takes his silence as an offer to continue. "Are all Mumriks like you? There’s two of ‘em back in the valley, haven’t actually met them-- a father and a son, are you related to them?” The troll asks away, fluff down and tail happy, and maybe he’ll regret this but he isn’t a fighter, there’s nothing to him to make him one unless he wants to; unlike Mumriks; so this is a start, taking his satchel off and sliding it to the Mumrik, who only looks at it puzzlingly.  
  


“No. We're not all the same. Don’t have family, either.”  
  
“Oh. I. I'm sorry. Alright, uh,” Cough. “All on me, besides the lamp, is in that satchel, like the blade,” Vintertroll explains but the man doesn’t say anything further, taking the satchel with curiosity. His ears are perked, attentive, and twitch as if to egg the troll to continue. “So, if it makes you feel better and less cautious of me, you can hold onto it for now. I’m The Vintertroll, by the way,” He’s fixing his scarf, wrapping it more firmly around himself. “To add to that, despite the word ‘troll’ in my name, I’m only half Mumintroll and half-something else.”

To that Vintertroll hears a curious hum and he watches Bo Hatt take a sniff of the satchel, searching for a scent. It’s still unfamiliar altogether, but now familiar that he’s caught the scent of the satchel’s owner, but it does not answer a question of what is the half-something else.  
  
“I can’t smell anything but the scent of a Mumintroll hybrid, Indeed. Whatever you are, It’s not something I’ve met before.” He’s careful turning the satchel on it’s back, inspecting the embroidered design there. “Do not take my word for granted; my knowledge of critters is far better than for most other creatures, but you could just be a different branch in the evolutionary tree of trolls. Maybe not as old as _the_ Mumintrolls though, for mutations are possible at any time and you lot seem pretty new.”

“That’s funny," Vintertroll hums. "The Vinter has a similar suspicion, only thing is that he thinks we’ve been around for as long as Mumintrolls.”  
  
“The Vinter? I presume this to be either of your parents, but whatever the case, they're either wrong or right. No one to confirm or debunk.”

“Mhm.. and yeah, It’s Vinterpops. You’d like him! If he were here, he’s up all the way to The North.”

“Interesting. You trolls with your curious names.” He slides the satchel back, blade and all, but Vintertroll doesn’t take it in his own paws for the moment, Bo Hatt sees. The satchel is also quite dirty now, mostly from his dusty paws. Oops. “I suppose this means to be my turn then.”

The troll perks up; Vintertroll wanted to say more, but what if that put off the Mumrik? So he settled for one, tiny, and quiet; “Oh?”  
  
Bo Hatt did not think that it should be a surprising introduction at all, but Vintertroll sure was on edge to know his name, so much so he was finally relieved. Weird, but he did not mind it. “I am called Bo Hatt, but Bo’s just fine.”  
  
“That’s a pretty name! It sounds like Beau, and then Hat. Beau Hat.”  
  
“I’m as aware of that as Hattifatteners are of lightning, Vintertroll.”

  
“I’m not wr--” Bo Hatt watches as Vintertroll lets out a spontaneous sneeze, a loud one too with a force that seems to spook the fire itself. He’s got way thicker fur, enough to not get sick during autumn or winter, but Mumintrolls had thinner fur and this one had yet to grow his winter coat. Vintertroll’s fur sticks on end, autumn winds colder as the night grows darker.  
  
“I think it’s time you head back home, Vintertroll, lest you catch a nasty cold.”  
  
“I- I don’t know the way back, hrgh,” The troll rubs a paw up and down his arms, he’s still cold even with an ever-so-alive fire right in front of him. “By the Booble, It’s going to be a bloody cold season, innit?”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry since you hibernate.” Bo Hatt sighs a little breath, starting to take off the moth-battered and lint ball-ridden cardigan. “Here,” Already-dirty paws become even dirtier when he pats the ground besides him, “Have my cardigan for the time being and huddle up against me to get you more warm.”  
  
“I don’t wanna spend the night in the forest quite honestly, Bo, and I’m not the type to hibernate.” He scuttles up to Bo Hatt’s side and is welcomed by a much bigger piece of clothing; smelt like a combination of a cat that rolled around in fresh earth and wet leaves, but he wasn’t about to risk getting sick or refusing the offer to curl up against him in seek of the needed warmth. He immediately finds the damn Mumrik is far warmer than him too and even more lankier than he thought under all those clothes, but puffy with all that hint of so much more fur.

He shrugs off the part about hibernation. “You won’t, Vintertroll,” reassured Bo Hatt. “Wouldn’t want people thinkin’ you perished in the forest and come looking for a very much alive troll and get pissed.”  
  
“I don’t think you know how to give _actual_ reassurance, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”  
  
“I do try my best.”  
  


___________________

  
  
About three hours later Vintertroll had fallen asleep after chattering with Bo Hatt. He was as strange and frustratingly cryptic as all Mumriks seem to be, but it wasn’t a bad thing. It was quite amazing, really.  
  
The last thing he remembers is a song about pelicans, prideful of how no other birds were grand as they -- ploffskin, pluffskin, pelican jee -- they thought so then and still they would do. It’s all he can recall from his sleepy conversation with Bo Hatt, but maybe it was a dream for he awakened on the couch of his little house in the morning. He stretches and yawns, groaning just a bit. Seems he slept longer than intended, he's not usually the groggy one in the morning. He pulls the blanket off of him, a blanket he does not remember getting. Wasn't it a cardigan? And there's his stuff on the table where he'd left it prior running off to the woods.

Huh.  
  
Was all that a dream? Quite a dream, that was, but rather disappointing that it was just his active dreams. It's not until he hops off the couch to reach the table by the door, with his stuff, that pristine carpets were dried with sharp, narrow, muddy boot prints that go straight to the couch and back right out the the door. Then he notices the satchel, even _more_ dirtied with distinct cat-like Mumrik paws.  
  
“He’s real and I’m _so_ going to push him in the river bank, so help me, that stinky muddy cat needs a _bath._ "

**Author's Note:**

> i'm high af on painkillers rn and i just wanted to get this finished and post it already to make myself feel better and calm tf down, hope y'all enjoy this < 3
> 
> fun fact: these fan ocs started as 1990's Moominvalley Cartoon fan ocs then I changed them to be in the new Moominvalley 2019 adaptation. Of which I sadly cannot watch bc I'm in the US territories and there's no way to watch that new show here :c


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